Living Life
by makealist
Summary: "We been here half a year now, and there's no point in spinnin' our wheels while we wait. No. That's boring and depressing. What we gotta do is just start livin' life."
1. Chapter 1

**So, here's the equation (s):**

**Six days home with the family + mostly crappy weather = EXTREME boredom **

**Terrible writer's block (non-FF) + thumb drive coated in antibacterial gel = EXTREME frustration + continued need to break writer's block**

**Random unexpected reviews for old stories * handful of "writing anything new?" PMs = renewed interest**

**[(EXTREME frustration + continued need to break writer's block) + EXTREME boredom + renewed interest] - family (at climbing gym for the day) = NEW STORY! **

**Two, actually, 3 chapters each. Woot.**

PART 1

James is starting to think that maybe, _just maybe_, it's _possible_ his little rah-rah speech last week was a misguided and delusional lie. His little motivational pep talk about how they'll never give up . . . NEVER, "but we been here half a year now, and there's no point in spinnin' our wheels while we wait. No. That's boring and depressing. What we gotta do is just start livin' life." He said this with as much gusto and resolve as he could muster, and looked over at his little band of disgruntled misfits. Looked into those four sets of eyes, two sets dark, one set blue, one set vacant, and thought he was getting his point across. Hell, three days later, the Boy Wonder set sail for Ann Arbor.

"See?" James said to Miles as they watched Dan's submarine dip beneath the water. "See? That's what I'm talkin' about. Livin' life. Gettin' on with what's next." He gave Miles a few good smacks on the back for good measure. "That's what you gotta do Miles, I'm tellin' ya."

Miles scoffed. "You first, man," he challenged.

This? Today? Tonight? This is James taking up that challenge. This is James doing something he's thought about for a while. Since his early days here in Dharma, to get technical. He didn't tell her nothing about it being a part of his "Livin' Life" plan, but he strode right over to her place. Gave her some song and dance about her bein' on this island a whole lot longer than him, and surely she's got a special place? Some place she thinks is prettier than anywhere else? She does. Fantastic.

"Then I'd love to take you for a picnic there." It sounded stilted, even as he said it.

"Are you asking me on a date?" she asked, straight-faced but with her eyes twinkling. Truth is, she's probably seen this coming a mile away.

"I am," he answered. His heart should've been pounding, waiting for her answer, but it wasn't. That's a clue he ignored. He hoped she'd say yes, but if she didn't . . . well the Living Life plan could move on to a different phase. (Horace has been making broad hints about a potential promotion.)

But she said yes, and here they are now. The site she chose, a lush hillside with mountain and ocean views, a flat space for a picnic, and within sight of the safety of the sonic fence, is about perfect, even though it calls up an eerie similarity to Amy and Paul's ill-fated picnic. But he don't talk about that. Don't see the point, and it's one of about a million things he finds himself wanting to talk about, but choosing not to. All this self-censoring fills the picnic with patches of silence. He feels like lately he's coming to find solace in shared silence, but this evening, it's awkward. For a brief spell, he falls back on good ole boy slickster charm, but feels uncomfortable with it, like wearing an old jacket that used to make him feel cool and now seems garishly out of style. Makes her look at him funny, too. She ain't familiar with the slickster version.

He _thought_ they'd gotten to be friends since he washed up here in Dharmaville (1974 version). Now he realizes what they've gotten to be is _friendly_, and "friendly" turns out to be a world of difference from "friends." She gamely plays along, occasionally filling conversational gaps, telling some stories about college days and her ill-fated marriage and how said marriage ultimately led to her winding up here, but he ain't that interested in what she's got to say. Maybe 'cause it turns out she's kinda boring. Maybe 'cause he's realizing that "Living Life" ain't as easy as he made it seem in his pep talk. Maybe 'cause his heart's still elsewhere.

That last one seems most reasonable, he thinks, as they pack up their picnic basket and drive back to barracks. She's been smiling at him, and at one point, used a particularly rough bump to slide closer to him. That move makes him feel a little wrong. Disloyal, maybe. If she invites him in to her place, he wants to say yes. She is good looking, no denying that. "You ever notice her eyes?" he trilled to Miles when he bragged about his big upcoming Living Life date.

"Yeah, right. I'm sure it's her _eyes_ you've been noticing," Miles scoffed.

But now, with her sitting too close, he feels unfaithful. (And confused. Unfaithful? Ain't no one he got any obligation to.) They park, and he walks her back to her place. _If she asks me in, I'll say yes. If she asks me in, I'll say yes. If she asks me in, I'll say yes. _If he really wanted to say yes, he wouldn't have to repeat this to himself, but even in his pep talk to the gang, he admitted that Living Life wasn't going to always be easy. So be it.

"You want to come in?" she asks from her doorway.

_If she asks me in, I'll say yes. If she asks me in, I'll say yes. If she asks me in, I'll say yes. _He can't shake that unfaithful feeling, though. He hadn't thought about Kate in months. Now he's only thinking about her because he's remembering that he's kind of forgotten her lately, and that makes him feel . . . lonely? Confused? Disloyal? Unfaithful? Like she's really traipsing around the 21st Century wondering what he's up to. But still, he . . .

"Do you?" she tries again. "Want to come inside? I baked cookies this afternoon."

_If she asks me in, I'll say yes. If she asks me in, I'll say yes. If she asks me in, I'll say yes. It won't be disloyal to go in. It won't be. It's just cookies. Besides, we're friends or, well, friendly acquaintances, and ain't I supposed to be living life? Ain't that the plan? Not obsessing over the past? But I haven't been obsessing over the past in ages. Kate can do what she damn well pleases, and so can I, so it AIN'T DISLOYAL and it AIN'T CHEATING and, I can . . ._

"I wish I could, but I gotta get up for an early shift tomorrow." He can't do it. He simply can't. What he can do is lie to her, though (his shift don't start till 10:30). That makes him feel dirty and angry and grumpy.

"It's OK," she says, "I understand." She nods at him, and he knows her well enough to know she understands more than his "early" shift. She manages to look sympathetic (and still totally good-lookin'.. . what is _wrong_ with him?) when she says, "Tonight was fun. Thank you."

"Yeah, maybe we'll do it again sometime."

"Sure," she agrees. "But don't feel like you have to, OK?" Can she really see through him so easily?

"Yeah, no, I, sure . . . sure." He turns on his heel and leaves her there at her doorway.

* * *

He bangs through his front door and heads directly for the kitchen. Last thing he needs right now is any smart-mouth from his fuckin' wise-ass of a roommate. He buries his head in the fridge.

"How was the big date?" comes the inevitable query from the next room.

He grumbles into the fridge. So much for avoidance. "OK," he calls out, lying. Again. Might as well go all out. He, James Ford, Sawyer, Jim LaFleur, whatever, is doing it. He is Living! Life! Just like he said he was gonna, and so what if tonight didn't go like he thought? He'll try harder next time. He will make it work, and he'll ignore all those weird feelings, and he'll spend the night at her place 'cause she's hot and nice and friendly and gets him. Tonight was a hiccup. So, he revises his answer. "Fine," he says, adding some false confidence to his voice. Then he upgrades, "Good. Great."

"Well, waddaya know? Keep saying words, and maybe you'll eventually land on 'fantastic'."

He rolls his eyes and chuckles despite himself. Miles, Juliet, even Jin (now that he understands him better): some joke the universe was playing, sending James back in time with a buncha wiseasses.

He doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, still chuckling, and feeling better already, he asks, "Want a beer?" No point ruining the rest of the evening just because the first part didn't go so great.

"Please."

There's three left in a six pack on the top shelf. He picks them up by their plastic holder and carries them into the living room where he discovers she's taking up the whole couch. He hands over a beer and then orders, "Move your feet, I wanna sit there."

"I was here first."

"I was here first," he mock whines and sing songs like a 6-year-old. She doesn't move or even turn her attention away from her book, so he picks up her feet, sits at the end of the couch, puts her feet back in his lap. He pops the top on his beer can, takes a big swig, and lets loose a loud "Ahhhhhhhh," of relief. He shakes back his hair, gives her shin a few pats, and puts on his show: "Livin' life, Blondie, I tell you what. It's like I told you folks last week, just gotta go out and do it. You'll be happy you did, believe me."

"OK," she says, looking up at him briefly before turning a page. He doubts she's buying his act, but at least she's gonna let him keep on acting. Plus she won't make him talk about it. Back when they were divvying up their housing assignments, there were probably about a zillion reasons he wanted Juliet, but top of the list was probably the following: Jin doesn't talk enough; Miles talks too much; Juliet talks just the right amount. He's Goldilocks, and them three are the Three Little Bears of Conversation.

After a few pages, or a few sips of beer (depending on who's counting), she says, "Please tell me that nothing you did or didn't do tonight is going to jeopardize my sunscreen supply."

"Your sunscreen is the last of my fuckin' concerns," he states.

She makes a little sourpuss face he chooses to ignore. She returns her attention to her book, leaving him in silence. The kind of silence he finds solace in, not that awkward kind like earlier tonight with Elena.

Elena manages the commissary. First day on the job, James got assigned to guard the commissary shipment. "Sub to commissary, nothing gets lost. No five-fingered discounts, nothing 'falling off the truck,' got it, LaFleur?" the Head of Security asked him. No problem. Even less of a problem when he met the commissary manager in her short shorts and tight t-shirt, thick auburn hair, bright green eyes. She checked things off some list on her clipboard while he stood there on the dock staring at her ass and thinking this Dharma Initiative wasn't a bad deal, after all.

He helped her load up the van, and drove her back to the commissary. The whole ten-minute drive they exchanged pleasantries. That's the deal every shipment that's come since. Every few weeks or so. She checks things off, he helps her load, drives her back, helps her unload. They flirt a little in the process, and once done, she gives him first dibs on anything new, which lately means paperbacks for him, some specific kind of peanut butter cracker for Jin, and the non-greasy sunscreen Juliet likes.

Every shipment. For the past 6 months. He and Elena spend the whole time, well, . . . exchanging pleasantries. He realizes now that's all it's been. They talk about the weather, and the upcoming rainy season, and when the new recruits might be coming in, and they complain a little bit about Horace or joke about whatever slop was served in the cafeteria yesterday. That's it. They've been _friendly_, but not _friends_, and he doesn't understand how he confused the two. Probably because it's been six months talking to her, half an hour every few weeks, and that's probably, no, _definitely_, longer than he's ever spent talking to some woman he don't intend to talk out of her money. Right? He really thought there was more to it than just being friendly.

"Her ex-husband got himself killed in Vietnam," he says out of nowhere, even though he kinda thought he didn't want to talk about it. "She told me that tonight. I mean, what the hell I'm supposed to say to that? She's talkin' about the 11th Armored Cav or whatnot, and I'm thinkin', 'Shit. I didn't even know she was married.' Divorced. Whatever. And I mean, the guy gets shot down in the jungle, and is she glad about that or sad or what? You know?"

She nods. Yeah, right, she knows. Her ex-husband got run over by a bus, and he knows all about how sad and relieved and scared and weird that made her feel. Shit. He shoulda remembered all that tonight. He mighta said something appropriate to Elena. Something more than what he actually said, which was: "Huh. How 'bout that."

"Just thought it would be easier," he mumbles.

"You mean the big Live Life plan?" she says. There's just a slight hint of sarcasm there. He turns sharply toward her, trying to figure out how she saw right through his date night so quickly and to judge how much of what she's saying is meant to be needling. She's smiling kindly, though.

"Yeah, that," he answers.

"Did you really think it was going to be that easy?"

He shrugs. Never said it was going to be _easy_, but easier than tonight, that's for sure. "Why wouldn't it be?" he asks.

She looks away, staring at the spot on the carpet from that night a few months back where they got drunk off Dharma merlot and she kept pouring but missing his glass. Most fun he's had since he can probably remember.

She turns back to him and says. "I guess you're right. It might be easier for you."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Living a lie. That's not easy when you're not used to it."

And see. That! That's just it. That's why he thought he _could_ do it. He's _not_ living a lie. For once in his adult life, he's _not_. He's not scheming or conning, and he's being honest. He says as much: "But I'm not living a lie."

"Really. So your name really is Jim LaFleur. You're really a salvage boat captain, and your first memory is when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor?_ Really_? Because as long as we're having true confessions, I'd like to state for the record that despite what you may have heard, I was _not_ a member of the studio audience the night The Beatles appeared on _Ed Sullivan_."

He snorts. "God damn, you can be a wiseass sometimes, you know that?" Some joke the universe is playing on him . . .

She raises her beer can in salute. "A compliment coming from you."

"OK, yes. Yeah, that's all a lie. But I guess what I meant was. . ." What the hell _did_ he mean? She's right. Everything they are and everything they were . . . it's a lie. Why didn't he fight in 'Nam? Where did she learn car repair? How did he become a ship captain? Then again, Juliet knows all about Cassidy and Clem, the whole sordid story. Knows about the letter and the real Mr. Sawyer. He told her about Frank Duckett, too. Told Jin about that, even. He tries to explain, "But, I mean, like us, you and me, the things we talk about in here. That's all been honest."

"Well," she says, sighing in mock concern before returning her attention to her book, "guess the big Live Life plan will have to stay within these four walls."

"Guess so," he grouses. That sounds stifling. Take out the interior walls, and this place ain't much bigger than a tennis court. He picks his second beer off the coffee table. He pops the cap then complains, "Part of my hope with the Living Life Plan was that it'd end up with me gettin' laid."

"Sorry I can't help you there," she notes.

He snorts. He drinks more.

Real quiet nights like this you can hear the bug chorus outside. It's peaceful and calm. A peace he's probably never felt before. He's about finished with his second beer when he breaks the quiet to ask, "How come?"

"How come, what?"

"How come you can't help me out with gettin' laid?" He's smiling to himself at his own smart-assedness. The _very_ idea. "I know for a fact you ain't been celibate your whole life. Surely you're at least acquainted with the ins and outs."

"So to speak," she says, deadpan.

He laughs. "So to speak."

She closes her book on her finger. She sits up straight, angling up from the couch arm. "If you must know, I have_ extremely_ high standards when it comes to men, and you simply don't measure up."

He lets the comment linger, makes a sad face, pretending like what she said hurts his feelings. He can't keep it up, though. "Bullshit!" he laughs. She laughs, too. One of her real laughs, where she ends up covering her mouth with her hand. He knows that ain't true, her "extremely high standards." So she knows all about Clem and Cass and Duckett and Sawyer and the letter and his mama and daddy. He knows all about Edmund and Ben and Goodwin and Jack and _her_ mama and daddy.

The silence in the aftermath of their laughter isn't quite as peaceful as the silence that came before. He's actually thinking about it . . . her . . . her and _it_ . . . and, "I'm real good at it," he jokes (but still, always – with her, honest), trying to bail them out, float them back to calmer waters.

"Oh, I'm quite sure you are," she jokes in return (but she's still being honest, too).

They're still staring. _Think of something to say _. . . But he can't think of anything to say, no wise-ass comments, no joke about the Others, no insult he don't really mean. He can't say anything and he can't stop staring, and what he thinks, but doesn't (can't) say is _Jesus, you're gorgeous, do you know that_? His heart hammers. If his shirt were made outta thinner fabric, she could probably see his heart pumping away.

He finds himself running through the inventory of feelings that tripped him up earlier tonight. Does this feel disloyal? Not in the least. Does he feel like this is cheating? Hardly. He owes nothin' to Kate. Realization dawns that it wasn't _Kate_ he was feeling disloyal to when he was perched on Elena's doorstep earlier tonight.

_Oh, shit,_ he thinks. _What now? _This? They can't do this, right? Or maybe he's mis-reading signs, or. . .

Juliet saves him by breaking eye contact. He's teased her before about maybe trying to get in the Guinness Book for world's best stare-er, but he's glad she's the one to stop the staring now. Except what she's looking at is her feet still in his lap. Specifically, his thumb tracing circles around her ankle bone. _That was unconscious, honest! _He didn't mean . . . He jerks his hand away, holds it awkwardly in the air.

"Sorry, I didn't mean nothin', I . . ."

She cocks her head to the side, but still won't look at him. "No. . . I . . . it felt nice. . . I mean, it . . . it's OK. . . . you, uh . . . you don't have to stop."

He puts his hand back. Then he reaches his other hand down beside the arm of the couch, puts his beer can on the floor. He puts his second hand over her calf, and she shivers, and he can feel goosebumps on her smooth skin.

"Sorry," he mumbles again. "Beer made my hand cold."

She shakes her head and parts her lips. It's silent again, not awkward, but not entirely peaceful, either. "It isn't the cold," she finally says.

He moves his hand to the underside of her calf. He strokes her Achilles tendon with his fingers. She shivers again, and he stares at her.

Seems like all the time, Horace or someone in security is buzzing in on his walkie with some pissant task or ridiculous question. More often than James'd care for, Miles comes barging in (not always knocking), needing to whine or complain to him or to laugh with Juliet about goofy 70s styles. James finds himself hoping something like that will happen now. Save the both of them from this line they're getting ready to cross.

His hands are inching up her leg, dangerous territory, but who ever knew 'dangerous territory' could feel so smooth and soft? He scoots over so that she's sitting on his lap. If she can't feel how aroused he is, then it probably means she's got no sensory receptors in the back of her thighs.

Her face is so close to his, inches away. Her eyes dart to the door, then back to his eyes.

"Hopin' someone will come in here and save us from ourselves?" he asks.

She gulps and nods. She's blushing.

"Yeah, me too," he admits.

She laughs then. She shifts her weight a little on his lap, trying to get more comfortable. She raises her eyebrows at what she feels there. _Guess she does have sensory receptors in the back of her thighs_, he thinks. She shifts again, this time a little tease, and he moans, almost involuntarily.

Fuck it. He kisses her. Her eyes widen in surprise. For a split second, he thinks he's made a mistake, then anger flares out of disappointment and confusion: _What the hell was she expecting with her little lap dance routine? _Before he has a chance to act on that flicker of anger, though, she's kissing him back. She's running her fingers through his hair, opening her mouth to him.

He will kiss her forever. That's all he wants, all he needs (all physical evidence to the contrary). This will be fine. Just this, now, forever.

Except she breaks away to look at him with hazy eyes. She blinks and gapes and looks so damn cute, confused and uncertain. "I think we may be reaching a point of no return," she ultimately says.

He reaches out a hand to stroke the side of her neck. "'Fraid we already have," he admits.

James is starting to think that maybe, just _maybe_, it's _possible_ his thought that he'd be satisfied just kissing her is a misguided and delusional lie. She leans over to kiss him, and that's it. Point of return or no, this is going all the way tonight, and soon.

Point of no return. It becomes their long-running inside joke. A few months down the road when he hears her refer to his bedroom (which he never slept in again) as the "extra room." He tells her that's a "point of no return." When he declares his love for her, and she reciprocates, she gets an alarmed look in her eye and calls it a "point of no return." When the ring comes off the sub and he stares at it in his palm, he thinks "point of no return." It's funny. Funny because the both of them are always scared at what's on the other side of the "point of no return." Funny 'cause what's on the other side is always so damn good.

Till there really is a point of no return. Hard to pinpoint when exactly that was. Jin calling up to tell him they were back or Sayid refusing to play the game or Miles forgetting to erase that damn tape or Kate's boots clomping down the sub ladder or that _look_. That goddamn misguided (misinterpreted?) look.

But probably what it was was when he was hangin' on so damn tight. The point of no return probably was when she was slipping, and when his grip shifted. It wasn't his forearm aching no more - it was the tiny muscles in his fingers holdin' on for damn life. That's a point of no return and what was on the other side was no damn good at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**If you are inclined to listen to the Willie Nelson tune in this chapter (and why wouldn't you be? Willie! Nelson!), search "Willie Nelson Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain" on YouTube. Skip the duet with Shania Twain. It's too upbeat. Plus it's mostly Shania Twain over-emoting. You have to watch the 1980 Midnight Special version. It is amaaaaaaaaaaazing. Captain and Tennille! And Willie's kickin' 1980 band fashions. Plus, it's just a really good version of this particular song. It makes for a good background to this chapter. Just sayin'.**

* * *

"What the hell's this?" he asks, taking the envelope, but not bothering to look up at the man from Oceanic.

"It's an apology. Look, we can't imagine how horrific last three years must have been for you. What you lived on. Where you slept." James looks at him then, looks at him with lifeless eyes. The man clears his throat. "Anyway, that check's an apology. You shouldn't have to work again. We're sorry about how you spent the last three years, but we hope that can help you start living life again."

"Got it all backwards, man," is all he can manage to say.

* * *

6 MONTHS LATER . . .

James stares into his half-empty pint glass, wondering how many of these he's going to have to go through tonight. It differs: some nights, no amount of beer, whiskey, scotch, tequila does the trick. Other nights it might only take seven or eight beers, four or five scotches and then he can, well, not forget, not exactly, not ever, but he can at least not ache quite so much. He never touches wine. It's too sophisticated and urbane and too much of a reminder and too much what she might . . . no, he doesn't drink wine because the hangovers are too bad. That's why.

He's two and a half beers in tonight, knows he's going to need more. He waves the bartender over, gestures to his pint glass with two fingers to request another.

He waits for the jukebox to pick up his song. He waits for the alcohol to do its trick.

Someone sits on the barstool next to him, even though there are empty chairs on the other side of the bar. He ignores the intruder.

"A-_hem_," the close-sitter starts attention seeking. Fuck. Why James ever bothered to tell Miles this was his place, he'll never know. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Now Miles has to swing by occasionally to check in on him. What he thinks he's doing, James'll never know. Last week he told Miles, "Ya know, if I was gonna hurt myself, I'd of done it already by now." Still, though, here is Miles with his bi-weekly check-in.

James doesn't even give him a chance to say anything. "Thanks for your concern, Enos, but as you can see, I'm doin' just fine."

"Great," Miles says. Then, to the bartender, "Coors Lite, please."

James snorts. "Don't you got no taste? Why you gotta drink that piss?"

"Sort of got used to the taste. It reminds me of Dharma brew."

James takes a long sip of his beer. "Why the hell would you want to be _reminded_?" James' drinking has the opposite intent.

Miles doesn't answer. He takes the bottle offered by the bartender.

Another sad country tune starts up on the jukebox. Not James' song, not yet, but still one of them old-school country songs about My Momma's Dead and Daddy's in Jail and My Truck Broke and My Dog Done Run Off and My Gal Don't Love Me No More. Not quite, but close, James thinks.

He says to Miles, "Anyway, you can stop checking in. I ain't drinkin' myself to death. In fact, I'm here doin' research. Gonna be a country music star. Got my first hit single planned and everything."

"That so?" Miles takes another drink, signals the bartender for another bottle.

"Yeah, it'll be called 'My Hippie Van's Broke and My Baby Can't Fix It 'Cause She Blew Up a Nuke.' Or somethin' like that," he says. "It's a work in progress."

"Hilarious."

"Story of my life: one barrel of laughs after another."

Miles winds up to say something, but a new song comes on the jukebox. Miles listens for a second, then says, "Willie Nelson? Are you _kidding_ me? Seriously?"

"Your dad loved Willie Nelson," James notes.

"Yeah, well, he and I didn't exactly spend my teen years bonding over shared music tastes, you know?" Miles notes sadly.

Their whole stay in the 70s, Miles always spoke of his dad with a sneer. James realizes something happened with Miles and Chang at the end of their 70s sojourn. Something changed. Chang was an uptight, pain-in-the ass stickler, but a decent enough guy. 'Cept Miles always called him a douche, always muttered about him abandoning him. Now he don't. Now he looks sad.

James doesn't care to get into it though, got his own miserable life to obsess over. So he says, "Besides, how do you even know this is my song playing?"

Miles listens more. "It's 'Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.' Of _course_ it's your song."

James raises his eyebrows, impressed at Miles' knowledge of Willie's ouevre. "Thought you hated Willie."

"Maybe I'm trying something new. Trying to understand my dad a little better."

James wonders again what happened to Miles and Pierre. He even considers asking, but says instead, closing his eyes while he does so, "Hush up now. This is my favorite part." Pretty much admitting this is indeed his song. And why not?

The music isn't even completely over when Miles launches into what James thinks is the world's longest monologue. Miles talks too much. Always did. But James doesn't stop him. Miles is one of the three little bears of conversation. The only one left.

Miles starts by shaking his head, then waving his arm over in the direction of the jukebox. "OK, this? Willie? Your favorite part? It's ALL WRONG. It's just a damn country song, OK? Do you know how many dead people I've talked to? A ton. And you know what? Willie's wrong. There's no magical meeting 'up yonder.' There's no 'strolling hand in hand again.' Gag. Give me a break. People die, and that's it. This is what we have. Here. Now. And even if such a place existed, do you really think _you_ of all people would have your ticket punched to the great 'land that knows no parting'? So stop living in some lala land."

Miles pauses, but only to catch his breath, before yammering on more. "You are such a self-centered bastard. You think the only reason I come in here all the time is to check on you. Well, guess what? _Wrong._ I come here because you're all I've got. I was gone for three years, and now I'm back, and I don't have friends anymore. Or the ones I still have . . . they don't get it, OK? I can't tell them _anything_, and I'm confused and sad and angry, and you're the only friend I've got. I don't come here because I think you need me. I come here because I _know _I need you. And all you're doing is drinking and forgetting, and what? Waiting to die? A wise man once said to me, 'We've been here six months, and there's no point spinning our wheels while we wait. That's boring and depressing. We have to start living life.' I need you, man, so join the living."

"Don't got anything to live for, man."

Miles shakes his head in disappointment. "You have a daughter, don't you?"

James doesn't respond. Miles takes that as invitation to keep yapping. "Listen real close, _LaFleur._ You got a what? Eight-year-old kid? Yeah, little girl you never met before. She's your family, and now you get a chance to be part of that. There are some people I won't bother to name who'll never get that chance. One's got a daughter he's never going to meet, and the other's got an eight-year-old nephew she's never gonna meet. I bet if either of _them_ got a chance like you've got, they wouldn't waste it. They'd probably do anything . . . hell, they already _did_ anything, and it's you who gets the chance. _You_. I've given you six months, but I'm done. All up to you now. Don't disappoint me, man. Don't disappoint _them_. And, you know what? If you're right? If Willie's right? If there's a 'land up yonder,' well, then, while you're 'strolling hand in hand again,' have fun explaining why it is you wasted the chance she didn't get. Be sure to let me know how that goes over."

James won't look at his friend. Miles stops talking long enough to pull his wallet from his back pocket. He puts a pile of bills on the bar, sets his empty beer bottles on top. The blessed silence is short-lived, however.

"Anyway, 'living life.' It was good advice then, and it's good advice now. So, I'm gonna take it. I won't be in here bugging you anymore." He tosses a piece of paper next to his pile of bills. "There's my number. Call if you decide to get your head outta your ass. Second number's Kate's. Claire and Aaron and Grandma Whatserface go back to Australia in two weeks. Kate could probably use a friend, if you even care. Third number's your daughter's. Kate said give her a little while to settle in after Aaron leaves, and she can help you out there. Or, you know . . . not. Keep on drinking yourself into a stupor every night. No skin off my nose. Later, pal."

James doesn't bother to turn and watch him leave. He thinks it'll be a relief to not have Miles on his ass anymore. The bartender comes over to bus Miles' empties. He picks up the cash. "This yours, fella?" he asks, holding out the page of phone numbers.

James stares at the numbers. Miles' handwriting. "Nah. My friend left that here. You can toss it."

The bartender crumples the note in his hand.

How many times has he read one of Miles' reports? Security log entries? Scribbled notes left on his desk? Notes and notes and notes.

_Phil is a prick, and if you schedule him for my shift again, I'm quitting. _

_Jin still on for Sat. 6:30 AM. Don't be late, he'll kick your ass. _

_Juliet stopped by. Working late tonight. Wants you to bring her dinner. Can you bring me dinner too, pretty please?_

"Wait, no," James reaches out for the bartender. "Hand me that paper." The bartender complies. James reads the numbers in Miles' familiar scrawl. And at the very bottom a final note from Miles:

_I loved them, too, man. I'll miss them forever. Don't make me miss you too. CALL YOUR DAUGHTER._


	3. Chapter 3

He approaches Sandy behind the desk. Sandy knows him now, all the gals here do. She smiles a welcoming smile and leans in to him to say, "She's running late. Had an emergency patient this morning. Shouldn't be more than 15 minutes, though. She said I could escort you back to her office."

James shakes his head. "Nah, that's OK. I'll wait out here."

"Suit yourself," says Sandy. "I'll let her know you're here, though."

He nods, then takes his seat in the waiting room. He likes that he has the privilege to go back to her office if he wants, but truth is, he likes to sit out here and look at all the people coming in to get _her_ help (or her colleague's, but still). If it wouldn't be completely absurd, he'd like stand up, puff out his chest, and announce, "She's mine, ya know."

This isn't the first time she's run late, though, and he brought a paperback just in case. He first makes room for the mom with the newborn in the car carrier. Then, he settles his glasses on his nose and starts to read.

Sure enough, it ain't but 15 minutes before she pops out from around the front desk. He gets to look at her for a few seconds before she spots where he's sitting. Takes his breath away sometimes, and always surprises him, the way she looks so professional in her lab coat and with her stethoscope half necklace looped around the back of her neck.

She spots him, grins, and waves. He closes his book, takes off his glasses, and slides them into his shirt pocket. He goes to her, but stops awkwardly when he's about a foot from her. Doesn't want to embarrass her too much or do something unprofessional. He gives her a quick hug and a little kiss on her left temple. She rolls her eyes, but smiles and doesn't glare at him, so he figures that was ok. She lets him take her arm, and she says, "I'm so glad we're doing this today. I could use a break." She jostles his shoulder playfully.

She's only got 35 minutes till she has to see a patient at the hospital. He tries to pretend this don't disappoint him – they're supposed to spend the afternoon together. She says they can have a quick lunch and that after she sees her patient, they'll still have their afternoon. OK. OK. She has a whole free afternoon, and she's choosing to be with him. That's something, even if it means a side trip to the hospital.

In the busy sandwich place they've chosen for lunch, she's picking at her salad, looking worried, so he tries to guess the source of distress. "Sandy says you had an emergency patient this morning," he says. "Everything OK?"

"Yeah, three-year-old with febrile convulsions. Scary, but he's going to be OK."

"Good work," he cheerleads.

She rolls her eyes. "Thanks. He's who I have to check in on at the hospital."

She uses her fork to push things around on her plate. _Uh oh._ This ain't never a good sign, the way she's got her dried cranberries off to one side, gorgonzola crumbles at the bottom of her plate, candied walnuts off to the other side. He knows her well enough to know that when she starts organizing her food into categories, it means she got something she wants to _talk_ about.

"Can I ask you a question?" she asks. Uh huh. This'll be some nonsense somethin' or other her mama put in her brain. Some no-good advice about love or relationships or something, and he's gotta be stuck tellin' her how it ain't always like that, don't let her mama's nonsense get her down . . .

"Be my guest," he answers (fake) confidently.

She moves her salad around a little more. "Uhm, I guess . . . how come . . . why is it you never talk about it?"

"Talk about what, sweetheart?"

"Those three years you were gone."

_Jesus. How long you got?_ (Not even 35 minutes, he knows). He points to her plate and observes, "Looks like ya got a cranberry mixed in with your walnuts, there."

"Come on, Dad. Don't be flippant."

"It was 25 years ago, Clem. Why does it even matter?"

"Seems like a big deal, and you never say anything about it. Nothing. Mom says you were a totally different person when you got back." (Uh huh, he knew it . . . nonsense her mama been putting in her head.) "I just want to understand."

He nods. "All right," he says. "Whaddaya want to know?"

She shrugs. "Like, I dunno, I mean . . . OK, well, how did you survive?"

Too many answers to that question. Too many _questions_ in that question. Survive what? The crash? The Others? The smoke? The mercenaries? The time flashes? What? Clementine stares at him, waiting on an answer. "Just got lucky, I guess," he finally manages.

She scoffs. "OK. Let me try again. I mean, what did . . . I mean . . . to survive, and maybe . . . I mean . . ." she moves the lone cranberry from the walnut pile into the cranberry one before continuing. "I would totally get why you wouldn't want to talk about it, and I wouldn't judge or anything, but, I mean . . . did you . . ." she clears her throat. "Did you ever have to . . . you know . . . maybe," she winces, "_eat_ some of your fellow survivors?"

_Yeah, but not in the way you mean, I don't think._ He hears it in Miles' voice in his head, and then he laughs. Laughs at the raunchy, double-entendre Miles still living in his head all these years later. Laughs at the idea of turning to cannibalism. He's laughing about it. Laughing about his time on the Island. He's never done that. Then he laughs at poor Clem's discomfort. He shouldn't do that. Shouldn't laugh at his daughter, because her assumption ain't completely crazy. More logical he don't talk about it because of cannibalism than because of time travel and a broken heart.

He wipes tears from his eyes. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh. No. No, it was nothin' like that, Clarice."

She quietly laughs at his nickname, then says, "Well, then, what did you eat? How did you keep from starving to death?"

He pushes his plate from him, and leans back in his chair. He crosses his arms over his chest. Big reason he's never ever spoken of this to anyone is he always thought it would hurt too damn much. But he's laughing about it now, and maybe he _can_ tell. If he can shade the truth, leave out some time travel and other magic shit, maybe it'll be OK. He runs his tongue over his top teeth, and then begins.

"Well, see, where we crashed. The Island we crashed on – there were already people living there."

"Like natives?" she interrupts.

_Hostile indigenous people_, he hears Horace's voice, and laughs again. He can't believe it. "Not really," he answers. "Like a scientific commune. Kind of isolated and weird, but, uh, they had buildings and food and everything. First off, they weren't exactly real welcoming, but after a while, they let some of us join up with them." (Except by then, it was a different group, because it was 30 years in the past, but, well, let's keep it simple).

"So that's it? You just lived there with a bunch of scientists? How come you didn't let anyone know you were OK?"

"Who woulda cared?"

She shrugs, conceding his point. "Well, how about the other people? Didn't they have people who would have cared?"

She don't know about Juliet and she don't know about Jin, so as far as she knows, his answer is the truth: "Guess they didn't have anybody cared about them either. There weren't but a few of us. Most everybody died in the crash." (Again shading the truth)

She pushes things around on her plate again, but he notices she's moving everything back together, some romaine leaves getting mixed in with the cranberries and walnuts, and this is a good sign. She was so worried that he was a cannibal? He laughs to himself again.

She takes a bite, then begins, "So, when you got rescued . . ."

Shit. What was the cover story, again? Can't quite remember. Oceanic covered the whole thing up pretty darn good. Gave 'em a nice little payout of hush money and that was that. No one really cared about these lost souls returning. Claire's mama about the only person who cared one way or the other, so there'd been some sort of story concocted for her benefit, but damn if he remembers exactly what it was. Once upon a time, he probably told Clem some highly abridged Cliff's Notes version, and . . . and . . . and he realizes that she's trailed off, hasn't even finished asking the question. She's staring in the middle distance, dredging up something.

"Mom said," yep, figured it would come back to something her mama told her, but she still looks confused, and starts on yet another tack. "So it was really OK there? Like, you were comfortable and happy and all that?"

He considers this for a moment. "Yeah. Yeah I was. Best three years of my life."

And she brings it back to Cass again. "Because Mom said that Aunt Kate has always told her not to pry too much. She said we should let you be. She said it was really terrible what happened to you there. Mom _still_ says you must've either lost a bunch of money, or, well, you know," she rolls her eyes, "cannibalism."

"Nope." Leave it to Cassidy to put these wild scenarios in Clem's head. He'd talk to her about it if they were actually on speaking terms.

"OK, so what was so horrible then?"

He looks up at his daughter. His little girl, now all grown up, with her professional hair and adult face and intelligent, perceptive, kind eyes. He's so damn proud of her. She's made his life worth living. She's the _only _thing that's made his life worth living. For three years decades ago, he lived a full life with a job, friends, responsibility, purpose, and abundant love. But most of that (the real part of it) was confined to a tiny house within a tiny compound on a tiny island in the middle of who knows where. For the past 25 years, the whole world, mountains, and cities, and beaches, and small towns, and vast prairies, museums, and malls, and libraries, and theaters have all been available to him. But his life, no responsibility, one friend, no purpose, has been confined to one small girl (grown woman across the table from him now be damned), and that's turned into abundant love, too. She's as old now as Juliet was when they first met and that doesn't seem possible. That Jules was really this young. That Clementine's now really this old . . .

"I, uh, I," he runs his fingertips along the edge of the table. "The woman I loved died," he says.

Clementine blinks at him.

"Juliet," he says, nodding decisively. It feels . . . it feels OK to say that aloud, to say that name to his daughter. "I was heartbroken."

"She was on your plane?"

Well, that would probably be the answer that makes the most sense, wouldn't it? For a second he considers going with it. Easier explanation. But if he's going to tell Clem about Juliet, he might as well be as honest as he possibly can. Was always honest with Jules about Clementine. Ain't that some sort of math function? Transitive property or commutative or something? He thinks back to helping Clem with her 4th grade homework, right about the time he was getting to be a part of her life.

"Nope, no. She, ah, she was part of that scientific group I told you about. She was already there when we crashed. I lived with her almost the whole three years I was there. God, those were three great years, but it was a long time ago. Time heals all wounds, and all that."

"Does it?" she asks. "Heal all wounds?"

He looks down at the table. "I'll let ya know. It's only been twenty five years."

She tilts her head and looks at him sympathetically. Juliet used to do that, too. Clem's eyes look a little too bright, like if he really turns up the tragedy-o-meter, she might go for a good cry.

Hoping to avoid that, he says, "Time _soothes_ all wounds. Don't heal 'em, but does a good job making it so you can go on livin' your life."

Clem's eyes widen in sudden realization. "Wait, hold on . . . OK, I think I get it now. Is she from Korea? Or Florida?"

James points his index finger at his daughter then taps it on his temple. Smart girl, figuring out his mysterious trips. "Florida."

"How did she die?" Clementine asks.

No way to explain. _She fell_ seems too mundane, doesn't encompass everything that led to that moment. _I dropped her_ probably requires more detail than he can go into. Nuclear bombs and changing time and looking at Kate and all of it . . .

He chews on his lower lip, trying to figure out how to answer. Finally, he says, "Does it really matter?"

For a second, it looks like she may say it does and may press him further for an answer, but she exhales and says, "No. No, I guess it doesn't."

It doesn't. What matters is how she lived. Clem ain't asked nothing about that, but James just starts telling anyway, what he can, at least. How she was a doctor (Clem asks, eagerly, "A pediatrician?," but no). What she looked like (James tones it down a bit, just so it's believable, doubts Clem'll believe him if he tells exactly what she looked like).

He talks on and on, about books, about shared laughs, about meals, about Miles, about parties, about fights, about music, about inside jokes.

Clem stares at him, soaking it all in, listening carefully, processing, taking too long to blink, smiling where appropriate. He knows she's filled with an endless well of compassion. Not to say she can't cut you dead with a look when she thinks you're being stupid or thoughtless. He sees so much of Juliet in her.

Now, he knows damn good and well Juliet ain't her mama. Juliet wasn't never anybody's mama. Never got that chance. It kills him, absolutely knocks him sideways to think that too hard. She woulda been great had she got the chance. Naw, he knows Clem ain't Jules' daughter. For a long time, he thought he was just seeing what he wanted to see, deluding himself.

Now he sees how it's self-fulfilling. It ain't by accident she stuck with science even after eighth grade when she came home and said science "is for boys." She stuck with it because he told her "hell, no, it isn't." It ain't by accident she likes to read, likes to read the same books he does. It's because he's shared books with her since about the time he got to know her. Ain't by accident she's a doctor, not a banker. It's cause when she came home freshman year of college with straight A's and started talking about a career in finance, he subtly steered her toward medicine. Didn't do none of that for any purpose 'cept he wanted her to believe in herself, wanted her to read, wanted her to do something good for the world. Anything else was by accident.

Still, no telling how it is she does that head tilt sympathy look Jules used to bust out occasionally. How she does that eyebrow-raised scoff. No telling where that came from. He supposes he is just seeing what he wants to see. No harm in that.

Her eyes widen suddenly. "Dad! I have to be at the hospital in ten minutes! I lost all track of time."

They pay the bill in haste. He agrees to accompany her to the hospital and wait while she sees her patient. He almost bails when they reach the hospital front doors, silently swishing automatic jobs. Shit. This was Jack's hospital. He's pretty sure Kate told him that once. Jack and his asshole dad, too.

"Dad?" Clem asks, while James stands staring, open mouthed, at the entrance. He shakes his head. What the hell's he afraid of? They gonna have some kind of oil portrait to the sainted Jack in the lobby? They probably should, guy was a hero. Naw, this'll be OK.

He and Clem ride the elevator to the fourth floor. He gives her a protective-dad shoulder hug as they get off. They do a quick little hallway sidestep dance with some lady in a hurry to get on the elevator they're getting off.

Clementine leads him down the hall to a waiting room. "Sure you don't mind, Dad?"

He pulls his paperback out of his jacket pocket and waves it at her. "Always prepared."

"All right. An hour. Tops."

She's off, and he settles in. This place ain't nearly as fancy as the waiting room at her practice. Hard plastic chair and old magazines. A pot of coffee in one corner and old-school vending machines along the wall. He settles in to read, but finishes his book in ten minutes.

He chuckles to hear the sound system, subtle, but unmistakable: good ol' Willie Nelson. Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain. James never got around to writing his hit country music single. "One day, when we meet up yonder," Willie croons. James wonders if Willie's right. If there's an up yonder. Hell, if there's an up yonder, the waiting room chairs are probably more comfortable. Or why would they even bother having waiting rooms up there?

He thinks he needs to call Miles. Tried to call him last weekend, but Miles is seeing some new girl, and was too busy to talk right then.

He thinks he needs to call Kate. When did he call her last? Christmas probably? Needs to do better about that, not just calling at Christmas like some old friend from high school.

He thinks he needs to call Horace. That one control panel on the fence acting up again, and needs new parts. Gotta go out there and fix it again tonight. He needs to call Jin, see if he'll go out there with him. Needs to call Juliet. Tell her he won't be home for supper. Tease her some more about the way she laughed so hard she snorted last night . . .

"Dad?"

James comes to. Still hanging out in the old school waiting room. Someone in a white coat staring down at him. He tries to play it cool, rubbing his face, yawning and blinking. Clementine standing over him.

"Hey, babe," he croaks. "Guess I drifted off. Was having good dreams. You all done?"

"Yep."

They're out the hospital and in the parking deck before he realizes he left his book. He was all done with it, but it was a good book. _Eh, screw it_, he thinks, no desire to go back to Jack's hospital anyway. It did kind of make him feel funny, give him weird dreams. Besides that waiting room smelled funny anyway. Scorched coffee and old magazines and floor wax.

* * *

What a godawful good-for-nothing day. Fucking waste of time to come over here, and then them looney tunes just up and leaving. What the fuck? He shoulda just left and gone on home. Shouldn't have stuck around to call back to the precinct. "Vic in the restaurant shooting bailed on me. Mark that down in the file." Then he remembers to call off the translator, "Tell Park he don't need to bother comin' over here. For the record, them two speak English just fine."

_Then,_ he shoulda gone straight home, except the lieutenant tells him to "sit tight while I make some calls."

"I'm tellin' ya, they ain't coming back."

But, whatever. He needs to call Cassidy back, anyway. He knows what all these calls she's made today are about: _Christmas_. It's her and Jeff's first married Christmas, and she really thinks they should therefore get Clementine for the holiday. But, see the thing is, when she moved off to Albuquerque, taking Jim's daughter with her, the deal was that holidays were _his_. He wants to do the mature thing, but he ain't sure if mature is being the bigger person and letting Cass have Christmas or if the mature thing is fighting tooth and nail for his daughter.

Maybe _you _should go to Albuquerque and stop bugging the crap out of me about it, is Miles' unsolicited opinion. Because, yes, it has come up more often over the past month or so than it probably should.

It's kinda like when he and Cassidy squared off over the Easter back in the spring. Jim'd been dating that girl, Elena, he liked. Then Cass threatened to keep Clem over Easter, and that was just really one straw too many, and, yes, yes, he did obsess over it. And, yes, he probably talked about it too much, but really not. It's a big deal. It's his kid.

Then, whatever, Elena dumped him. 'Cause, yeah, who wants to sit around and discuss child custody problems? No girl Jim's ever met. Besides, _fine_. She was kinda boring anyway.

But Cass is not answering her phone now (Jim leaves a silly message and goofy song, and hopes Cassidy'll at least have the decency to let Clem listen to it). Then the lieutenant calls back and says give it 45 more minutes. And just great, just _fucking great_, the cafeteria is closed. What a godawful good-for-nothing day.

Jim's had no dinner, and this'll have to do, even if, quite frankly, this waiting room _stinks_. It smells like scorched coffee and old magazines and floor wax_._

He slides his bill in, and, yep, yep, figured that would happen. He stares balefully at the stuck candy. He doesn't even like Apollo bars, but they're Clementine's favorite, and they always get them for a treat together and he was thinking about her, and he just wants to grab the goddamn machine and shake it till it lets the candy loose. He wants to kick it and punch it and he wants his daughter closer and he wants his daughter for Christmas and he supposes if he does something stupid and violent, it'll get back to Cassidy, and that'll be that.

So, he does the "smart" thing, and shoves his hand up the machine like some kinda vet working with a constipated elephant or something. He's thisclose, almost got it, when he catches a flash of white lab coat in the doorway. Busted._ Of course_. Of course he's busted. What a godawful good-for-nothing day.


End file.
